father has loosed you and me from each other.”
Kristin broke down utterly:
“Go, go, I will follow straightway—. Jesus! why do you torture me so,
Simon—you know you deem not yourself I am worthy that you should trouble
about me—”
“’Tis not for your sake I do it,” answered Simon. “Erlend—will you not
tell her to go with me?”
Erlend’s face quivered. He touched her on the shoulder:
“You must go, Kristin. Simon Darre and I will speak of this at another
time—”
Kristin got up obediently and fastened her cloak about her. Her shoes
stood by the bed-side—She remembered them, but she could not put them on
under Simon’s eyes.
* * * * *
Outside, the fog had come down again. Kristin flew along, with head bent
and hands clutched tight in the folds of her cloak. Her throat was
bursting with tears—wildly she longed for some place where she could be
alone, and sob and sob. The worst, the worst was still before her; but
she had proved a new thing this evening, and she writhed under it—she
had proved how it felt to see the man to whom she had given herself
humbled.
Simon was at her elbow as she hurried through the lanes, over the common
lands and across the open places, where the houses had vanished and
there was naught but fog to be seen. Once when she stumbled over
something, he caught her arm and kept her from falling:
“No need to run so fast,” said he. “Folk are staring after us.—How you
are trembling!” he said more gently. Kristin held her peace and walked
on.
She slipped in the mud of the street, her feet were wet through and icy
cold—the hose she had on were leather, but they were thin; she felt they
were giving way, and the mud was oozing through to her naked feet.
They came to the bridge over the convent beck, and went more slowly up
the slopes on the other side.
“Kristin,” said Simon of a sudden, “your father must never come to know
of this.”
“How knew you that I was—there?” asked Kristin.
“I came to speak with you,” answered Simon shortly. “Then they told me
of this man of your uncle’s coming. I knew Aasmund was in Hadeland. You
two are not over cunning at making up tales—Heard you what I said but
now?”
“Aye,” said Kristin.—“It was I who sent word to Erlend that we should
meet at Fluga’s house; I knew the woman—”
“Then shame upon you! But, oh, you could not know what she is—and he—Do
you hear,” said Simon harshly, “if so be it _can_ be hidden, you must
hide from Lavrans what you have thrown away. And if you cannot hide it,
then you must strive to spare him the worst of the shame.”
“You are ever so marvellous careful for my father,” said Kristin,
trembling. She strove to speak defiantly, but her voice was ready to
break with sobs.
Simon walked on a little. Then he stopped—she caught a glimpse of his
face, as they stood there alone together in the midst of the fog. He had
never looked like this before.
“I have seen it well, each time I was at your home,” said he, “how
little you understood, you his women-folk, what a man Lavrans is. Knows
not how to rule you, says yonder Trond Gjesling—and ’twere like he
should trouble himself with such work—he who was born to rule over
_men_. He was made for a leader, aye, and one whom men would have
followed—gladly. These are no times for such men as he—my father knew
him at Baagahus—But, as things are, he has lived his life up there in
the Dale, as he were little else but a farmer—He was married off all too
young—and your mother, with her heavy mood, was not the one to make it
lighter for him to live that life. So it is that he has many friends—but
think you there is _one_ who is his fellow—His sons were taken from
him—’twas you, his daughters, who were to build up his race after
him—must he live now to see the day when one is without health and the
other without honour—”
Kristin pressed her hands tightly over her heart—she felt she must hold
it in to make herself as hard as she had need to be.
“Why say you this?” she whispered after a time. “It cannot be that you
would ever wish to wed me now—”
“That—would I—not,” said Simon unsteadily. “God help me, Kristin—I think
of you that evening in the loft-room at Finsbrekken.—But may the foul
fiend fly away with me living the day I trust a maiden’s eyes again!
“—Promise me, that you will not see Erlend before your father comes,”
said he when they stood at the gate.
“That will I not promise,” answered Kristin.
“Then _he_ shall promise,” said Simon.
“I will not see him,” said Kristin quickly.
“The little dog I sent you once,” said Simon before they parted, “him
you can let your sisters have—they are grown so fond of him—if you
mislike not too much to see him in the house.
“—I ride north to-morrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in
farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on.
* * * * *
Simon Darre walked downwards towards the town. He flung out a clenched
fist as he strode along, talked half aloud, and swore out into the fog.
He swore to himself that he grieved not over _her_. Kristin—’twas as
though he had deemed a thing pure gold—and when he saw it close at hand,
it was naught but brass and tin. White as a snow flake had she knelt and
thrust her hand into the flame—that was last year; this year she was
drinking wine with an outcast ribald in Fluga’s loft-room—The devil, no!
’Twas for Lavrans Björgulfsön he grieved, sitting up there on
Jörundgaard believing—full surely never had it come into Lavran’s mind
that he could be so betrayed by his own. And now he himself was to bear
the tidings, and help to lie to _that_ man—it was for this that his
heart burned with sorrow and wrath.
Kristin had not meant to keep her promise to Simon Darre, but, as it
befell, she spoke but a few words with Erlend—one evening up on the
road.
She stood and held his hand, strangely meek, while he spoke of what had
befallen in Brynhild’s loft-room at their last meeting. With Simon
Andressön he would talk another time. “Had we fought there, ’twould have
been all over the town,” said Erlend hotly. “And that he too knew full
well—this Simon.”
Kristin saw how this thing had galled him. She too, had thought of it
unceasingly ever since—there was no hiding the truth, Erlend came out of
this business with even less honour than she herself. And she felt that
now indeed they were one flesh—that she must answer for all he did, even
though she might mislike his deeds, and that she would feel it in her
own flesh when so much as Erlend’s skin was scratched.
* * * * *
Three weeks later Lavrans Björgulfsön came to Oslo to fetch his
daughter.
Kristin was afraid, and she was sore of heart as she went to the parlour
to meet her father. What first struck her, when she saw him standing
there speaking to Sister Potentia, was that he did not look as she
remembered him. Maybe he was but little changed since they parted a year
ago—but she had seen him all her years at home as the young lusty,
comely man she had been so proud to have for father when she was little.
Each winter and each summer that passed over their heads up there at
home, had doubtless marked him with the marks of growing age, as they
had unfolded her into a full-grown young woman—but she had not seen it.
She had not seen that his hair was fading here and there and had taken
on a tinge of rusty red near the temples—as yellow hair does when ’tis
turning grey. His cheeks had shrunken and grown longer so that the
muscles ran in harder lines down to the mouth; his youthful white and
red had faded to one weather-beaten shade. His back was not bowed—but
yet his shoulder-blades had an unaccustomed curve beneath his cloak. His
step was light and firm, as he came toward her with outstretched hand,
but yet ’twas not the old brisk and supple motion. Doubtless all these
things had been there last year, only she had not seen them. Perhaps
there had been added a little touch—of sadness—which made her see them
now. She burst into weeping.
Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her
cheek.
“Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently.
“Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low.
“Surely you must know that I am,” he answered—but he went on stroking
her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you sure must know, that you have no need
to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now you must be still,
Kristin: are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.”—For she
was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not
speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he
sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after
your mother then—and your sisters—?”
“What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter.
“Oh, that you can have no need to ask—but we will not talk of it now,”
he said again. “Else she is well—” and he set to telling this and that
of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little
by little.
But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her
father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out
among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils, he
himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in
Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her
betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s
board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high
praise.
But all this came to an end at last. She had said her last farewell to
the Sisters and her friends at the convent gate; Lavrans led her to her
horse and lifted her into the saddle. ’Twas so strange to ride with her
father and the men from Jörundgaard down to the bridge, along this road,
down which she had stolen in the dark; wonderful, too, it seemed to ride
through the streets of Oslo freely and in honour. She thought of their
splendid wedding train, that Erlend had talked of so often—her heart
grew heavy; ’twould have been easier had he carried her away with him.
There was yet such a long time before her in which she must live one
life in secret and another openly before folks. But then her eye fell on
her father’s grave, ageing face, and she tried to think, that after all
Erlend was right.
* * * * *
There were a few other travellers in the inn. At eventide they all
supped together in a little hearth-room, where there were two beds only;
Lavrans and Kristin were to sleep there, for they were the first in rank
among the guests. Therefore, when the night drew on a little, the others
bade them a friendly good-night as they broke up and went to seek their
sleeping places. Kristin thought how it was she who had stolen to
Brynhild Fluga’s loft-room to Erlend’s arms—sick with sorrow and with
fear that she might never more be his, she thought: no, there was no
place for her any more amongst these others.
Her father was sitting on the further bench, looking at her.
“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the
silence.
“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your
mother’s brother made me listen to—because I would not constrain you,”
he added, as she looked up at him questioningly.
“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little
after, “had it not been that Simon said, he would not have an unwilling
wife.”
“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have
ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock—”
“’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had
been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans.
“These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk,
and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till
now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was
put off last year, so that you have not yet given Simon your troth; then
that I call not upright dealing.”
Kristin stood gazing down into the fire.
“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be
said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast you off. Sir
Andres sent me word—” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “—he was wroth
with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had
to say what was true—I know not if aught else had been better—that,
should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are
shamed either way.”
“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since
Simon and I are of one mind.”
“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was
unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught
but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.—But now must
you tell me how this has come over you.”
“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin.
“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given
your love to another man—Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.”
Kristin thought for a little.
“God knows,” said she in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good
enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know
another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in
all my life, were I to live it out with Simon—not if all the gold in
England were his to give—I would rather have the other if he owned no
more than a single cow—”
“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her
father.
“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but
this—he has enough both of lands and goods, but I would rather sleep
with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed—”
Her father was silent for a while.
“’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that
likes you not—though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have
against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether
the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You’re
young yet, and not over wise—and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is
promised to another—’tis not the wont of an upright man—”
“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin.
“Aye, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do
such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment
you have turned your back on Simon—and least of all to a man who might
be more high in rank or richer—You must say who this man is,” he said
after a little.
Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said
very slowly:
“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then
you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again—I
shall not live long there, I trow. But it would not be seemly that I
should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me
as I have to him. You—you must not force me to say who he is,
before—before ’tis seen whether—whether he is minded to make suit for me
through his kin.”
Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his
daughter took the matter thus; he said at length:
“So be it then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name,
if you know not more of his purposes.”
“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and
kissed her:
“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours,
my daughter—but this you know, that your good lies next my heart—God
help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do—He and His
gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the
best—Go now, and see that you sleep well.”
After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of
weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he
made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he
feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up
again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he
could do to save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his
back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the mischief had been
wrought by her own thoughtlessness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOOK THREE
LAVRANS BJÖRGULFSÖN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1
KRISTIN came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed
headlong round its bend past the farmstead and the fields; through the
tender leaves of the alder thickets its current glittered and sparkled
with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice
of their own and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening
twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day
and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound,
till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses
quivering like the sound box of a cithern.
Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood
wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over
the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the
spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like
silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hill sward smelt
sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the
strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things—it was as though
the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling,
of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay
down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat
and tired out with her dreams.
’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear
to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week
went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith,
and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the
woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands—he went
to see his tar burners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him and
was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his
daughter kindly as ever—but it was as though he had little to say to
her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out.
Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid
said never a word—and this seemed even worse.
* * * * *
Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was
Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the
parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his
household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to
Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor
folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests and all
the house servants would gather round them: for some of them were old
men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room
and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the
evening they danced in the courtyard.
This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry
that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a
drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been
little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember
to have seen the river so low at mid-summer.
So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to
greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board
eating milk porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin
stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick.
Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with
their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old
bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at
Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon
the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last
time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but
blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of
his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to
farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest,
since he had seen so much of the world and had laid up great store of
knowledge.
Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund
Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit.
He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him.
“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon, “But methinks a
jade has cooked our porridge for us to-day. While the cook cuddles, the
porridge burns, says the byword; and this porridge is singed.”
“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed
porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for
’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed,
and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of
meat.
Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart
was beating hard—she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon
was speaking.
That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking
together in the courtyard long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it
was no better with her the next day when she marked that her father was
silent and joyless. But he said no word.
Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well
that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn
for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made no sign towards
keeping him a while longer, but let him move on to the next farm.
* * * * *
For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be
moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an
exceedingly bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were
coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the
coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that
they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for
sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year
before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were
but scanty.
One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three
daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleach field.
Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked
little Ramborg’s hair and said:
“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.”
“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I
go to the nunnery?”
“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than
your sisters. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will
need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your
father and me as long as we live—if so be you will.”
“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin, unsteadily, “it may
be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.”
She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace.
“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would
I have turned away from Simon—he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful
when he said farewell to us all.”
“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid—but
Kristin broke in defiantly:
“Aye; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you
than from me.”
Her mother spoke in anger:
“And little must his pride have been, I wot, had he shown his sorrow
before you—you dealt not well and fairly by Simon Andressön, my
daughter. Yet did he beg us to use neither threats nor curses with you—”
“Nay,” said Kristin as before, “he thought, maybe, he had cursed me
himself so much, there was no need for any other to tell me how vile I
was. But I marked not ever that Simon had much care for me, till he saw
that I loved another more than him.”
“Go home, children,” said Ragnfrid to the two little ones. She sat
herself down on a log that lay by the green, and drew Kristin down
beside her.
“You know, surely,” said she then, “that it has ever been held seemly
and honourable, that a man should not talk overmuch of love to his
betrothed maiden—nor sit with her much alone, nor woo too hotly—”
“Oh!” said Kristin, “much I wonder whether young folk that love one
another bear ever in mind what old folk count for seemly, and forget not
one time or another all such things.”
“Be you ware, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you forget them not.” She
sat a little while in silence: “What I see but too well now is that your
father goes in fear that you have set your heart on a man he can never
gladly give you to.”
“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin in a little while.
“Naught said he,” answered her mother, “but that Erlend of Husaby is
better of name than of fame. Aye, for he spoke to Aasmund, it seems, to
say a good word for him to Lavrans. Small joy was it to your father when
he heard this.”
But Kristin sat beaming with gladness. Erlend had spoken to her father’s
brother. And she had been vexing her heart because he made no sign!
Then her mother spoke again:
“Yet another thing is: that Aasmund said somewhat of a waif word that
went about in Oslo, that folk had seen this Erlend hang about in the
by-ways near by the convent, and that you had gone out and spoken with
him by the fences there.”
“What then?” asked Kristin.
“Aasmund counselled us, you understand, to take this proffer,” said
Ragnfrid. “But at that Lavrans grew more wroth than I can call to mind I
saw him ever before. He said that a wooer who tried to come to his
daughter by that road should find him in his path, sword in hand. ’Twas
little honour enough to us to have dealt as we had with the Dyfrin folk;
but were it so that Erlend had lured you out to gad about the ways in
the darkness with him, and that while you were dwelling in a cloister of
holy nuns, ’twas a full good token you would be better served by far by
missing such a husband.”
Kristin crushed her hands together in her lap—the colour came and went
in her face. Her mother put an arm about her waist—but the girl shrank
away from her, beside herself with the passion of her mood, and cried:
“Let me be, mother! Would you feel, maybe, if my waist hath grown—”
The next moment she was standing up, holding her hand to her cheek—she
looked down bewildered at her mother’s flashing eyes. None had ever
struck her before since she was a little child.
“Sit down,” said Ragnfrid. “Sit down,” she said again, and the girl was
fain to obey. The mother sat a while silent; when she spoke, her voice
was shaking:
“I have seen it full well, Kristin—much have you never loved me. I told
myself, maybe ’twas that you thought I loved not you so much—not as your
father loves you. I bided my time—I thought when the time came that you
had borne a child yourself, you would surely understand—
“While yet I was suckling you, even then was it so, that when Lavrans
came near us two, you would let go my breast and stretch out towards
him, and laugh so that my milk ran over your lips. Lavrans thought ’twas
good sport—and God knows I was well content for his sake. I was well
content, too, for your sake, that your father laughed and was merry each
time he laid eyes on you. I thought my own self ’twas pity of you, you
little being, that I could not have done with all that much weeping. I
was ever thinking more whether I was to lose you too, than joying that I
had you. But God and His Holy Mother know that I loved you no whit less
than Lavrans loved.”
The tears were running down over Ragnfrid’s cheeks, but her face was
quite calm now, and so too was her voice:
“God knows I never bore him or you a grudge for the love that was
between you. Methought ’twas little enough joy I had brought him in the
years we had lived together; I was glad that he had joy in you. I
thought, too, that had my father, Ivar, been such a father to me—
“There are many things, Kristin, that a mother should have taught her
daughter to beware of. But methought there was little need of this with
you, who have followed about with your father all these years—you should
know, if any know, what right and honour are. That word you spoke but
now—think you I could believe you would have the heart to bring on
Lavrans such a sorrow—?
“I would say but this to you—my wish is that you may win for husband a
man you can love well. But that this may be, you must bear you
wisely—let not Lavrans have cause to think that he you have chosen is a
breeder of trouble, and one that regards not the peace of women, nor
their honour. For to such an one he will never give you—not if it were
to save you from open shame. Rather would Lavrans let the steel do
judgment between him and the man who had marred your life—”
And with this the mother rose and went from her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
2
At the Haugathing field on the day of Bartholomew’s Mass, the 24th of
August, the daughter’s son of King Haakon of happy memory was hailed as
King. Among the men sent thither from Northern Gudbrandsdal was Lavrans
Björgulfsön. He had had the name of kingsman since his youth, but in all
these years he had seldom gone nigh the Household, and the good name he
had won in the war against Duke Eirik he had never sought to turn to
account. Nor had he now much mind to this journey to the homaging, but
he could not deny himself to the call. Besides, he and the other
Thing-men from the upper valley were charged to try and buy corn in the
South and send it round by ship to Romsdal.
The folk of the parishes round about were heartless now, and went in
dread of the winter that was at hand. An ill thing, too, the farmers
deemed it that once again a child would be King in Norway. Old folks
called to mind the time when King Magnus was dead and his sons were
little children, and Sira Eirik said:
“_Vae terræ, ubi puer rex est._ Which in the Norse tongue is: No resting
o’ nights for rats in the house where the cat’s a kitten.”
Ragnfrid Ivarsdatter managed all things on the manor while her husband
was gone, and it was good both for Kristin and for her that they had
their heads and hands full of household cares and work. All over the
parish the folks were busy gathering in moss from the hills and
stripping bark from the trees, for the hay-crop had been but light, and
of straw there was next to none; and even the leaves gathered after St.
John’s Eve were yellow and sapless. On Holy Cross day, when Sira Eirik
bore the crucifix about the fields, there were many in the procession
who wept and prayed aloud to God to have mercy on the people and the
dumb beasts.
A week after Holy Cross Lavrans Björgulfsön came home from the Thing.
It was long past the house-folks’ bedtime, but Ragnfrid still sat in the
weaving-house. She had so much to see to in the day-time now, that she
often worked on late into the night at weaving and sewing. Ragnfrid
liked the house well too. It had the name of being the oldest on the
farm; it was called the Mound-house, and folk said it had stood there
ever since the old heathen ages. Kristin and the girl called Astrid were
with Ragnfrid; they were sitting spinning by the hearth.
They had been sitting for a while sleepy and silent, when they heard the
hoof-beats of a single horse—a man came riding at a gallop into the wet
farm-place. Astrid went to the outer room to look out—in a moment she
came in again, followed by Lavrans Björgulfsön.
Both his wife and his daughter saw at once that he had been drinking
more than a little. He reeled in his walk, and held to the pole of the
smoke-vent while Ragnfrid took from him his dripping wet cloak and hat
and unbuckled his sword-belt.
“What have you done with Halvdan and Kolbein?” she said, in some fear;
“have you left them behind on the road?”
“No, I left them behind at Loptsgaard,” he said with a little laugh. “I
had such a mind to come home again—there was no rest for me till I
did—the men went to bed down at Loptsgaard, but I took Guldsveinen and
galloped home—”
“You must find me a little food, Astrid,” he said to the servant. “Bring
it in here, girl; then you need not go so far in the rain. But be quick,
for I have eaten no food since early morning—”
“Had you no food at Loptsgaard, then?” asked his wife in wonder.
Lavrans sat rocking from side to side on the bench, laughing a little:
“Food there was, be sure—but I had no stomach for it when I was there. I
drank a while with Sigurd—but—methought then ’twas as well I should come
home at once as wait till to-morrow—”
Astrid came back bearing food and ale; she brought with her, too, a pair
of dry shoes for her master.
Lavrans fumbled with his spur-buckles to unloosen them; but came near to
falling on his face.
“Come hither, Kristin, my girl,” he said, “and help your father. I know
you will do it from a loving heart—aye, a loving heart—to-day.”
Kristin kneeled down to obey. Then he took her head between his two
hands and turned her face up:
“One thing I trow you know, my daughter—I wish for naught but your good.
Never would I give you sorrow, except I see that thereby I save you from
many sorrows to come. You are full young yet, Kristin—’twas but
seventeen years old you were this year—three days after Halvard’s
Mass—but seventeen years old—”
Kristin had done with her service now. She was a little pale as she rose
from her knees and sat down again on her stool by the hearth.
Lavran’s head seemed to grow somewhat clearer as he ate and was filled.
He answered his wife’s questions and the servant maid’s about the
Haugathing—Aye, ’twas a fair gathering. They had managed to buy corn,
and some flour and malt, part at Oslo and part at Tunsberg; the wares
were from abroad—they might have been better, but they might have been
worse too. Aye, he had met many, both kinsfolk and friends, and they had
sent their greetings home with him—But the answers dropped from him, one
by one, as he sat there.
“I spoke with Sir Andres Gudmundsön,” he said, when Astrid was gone out.
“Simon marries the young widow at Manvik; he has held his betrothal
feast. The wedding will be at Dyfrin at St. Andrew’s Mass. He has chosen
for himself this time, has the boy. I held aloof from Sir Andres at
Tunsberg, but he sought me out—’twas to tell me he knew for sure that
Simon saw Lady Halfrid for the first time this mid-summer. He feared
that I should think Simon had this rich marriage in mind when he broke
with us.” Lavrans paused a little and laughed joylessly. “You
understand—that good and worthy man feared much that we should believe
such a thing of his son.”
Kristin breathed more freely. She thought it must be this that had
troubled her father so sorely. Maybe he had been hoping all this time
that it might come to pass after all, her marriage with Simon Andressön.
At first she had been in dread lest he had heard some tidings of her
doings in the south at Oslo.
She rose up and said good-night; but her father bade her stay yet a
little.
“I have one more thing to tell,” said Lavrans. “I might have held my
peace about it before you—but ’tis better you should know it. This it
is, Kristin—the man you have set your heart on, him must you strive to
forget.”
Kristin had been standing with arms hanging down and bent head. She
looked up now into her father’s face. She moved her lips, but no sound
came forth that could be heard.
Lavrans looked away from his daughter’s eyes; he struck out sideways
with his hand:
“I wot well you know that never would I set myself against it, could I
anyways believe ’twould be for your good.”
“What are the tidings that have been told you on this journey, father?”
said Kristin in a clear voice.
“Erlend Nikulaussön and his kinsman, Sir Munan Baardsön, came to me at
Tunsberg,” answered Lavrans. “Sir Munan asked for you for Erlend, and I
answered him: no.”
Kristin stood a while, breathing heavily.
“Why will you not give me to Erlend Nikulaussön?” she asked.
“I know not how much you know of the man you would have for husband,”
said Lavrans. “If you cannot guess the reason for yourself, ’twill be no
pleasing thing for you to hear from my lips.”
“Is it because he has been outlawed, and banned by the Church?” asked
Kristin as before.
“Know you what was the cause that King Haakon banished his near kinsman
from his Court—and how at last he fell under the Church’s ban for
defying the Archbishop’s bidding—and that when he fled the land ’twas
not alone?”
“Aye,” said Kristin. Her voice grew unsteady: “I know, too, that he was
but eighteen years old when he first knew her—his paramour.”
“No older was I when I was wed,” answered Lavrans. “We reckoned, when I
was young, that at eighteen years a man was of age to answer for
himself, and care for others’ welfare and his own.”
Kristin stood silent.
“You called her his paramour, the woman he has lived with for ten years,
and who has borne him children,” said Lavrans after a while. “Little joy
would be mine the day I sent my daughter from her home with a husband
who had lived openly with a paramour year out year in before ever he was
wed. But you know that ’twas not loose life only, ’twas life in
adultery.”
Kristin spoke low:
“You judged not so hardly of Lady Aashild and Sir Björn.”
“Yet can I not say I would be fain we should wed into their kindred,”
answered Lavrans.
“Father,” said Kristin, “have you been so free from sin all your life,
that you can judge Erlend so hardly—?”
“God knows,” said Lavrans sternly, “I judge no man to be a greater
sinner before Him than I am myself. But ’tis no just reckoning that I
should give away my daughter to any man that pleases to ask for her,
only because we all need God’s forgiveness.”
“You know I meant it not so,” said Kristin hotly. “Father—mother—you
have been young yourselves—have you not your youth so much in mind that
you know ’tis hard to keep oneself from the sin that comes of love—?”
Lavrans grew red as blood:
“No,” he said curtly.
“Then you know not what you do,” cried Kristin wildly, “if you part
Erlend Nikulaussön and me.”
Lavrans sat himself down again on the bench.
“You are but seventeen, Kristin,” he began again. “It may be so that you
and he—that you have come to be more dear to each other than I thought
could be. But he is not so young a man but he should have known—had he
been a good man, he had never come near a young, unripe child like you
with words of love—That you were promised to another, seemed to him,
mayhap, but a small thing.
“But I wed not my daughter to a man who has two children by another’s
wedded wife. You know that he has children?”
“You are too young to understand that such a wrong breeds enmity in a
kindred—and hatred without end. The man cannot desert his own offspring,
and he cannot do them right—hardly will he find a way to bring his son
forth among good folk, or to get his daughter married with any but a
serving-man or a cottar. They were not flesh and blood, those children,
if they hated not you and your children with a deadly hate—
“See you not, Kristin—such sins as these—it may be that God may forgive
such sins more easily than many others—but they lay waste a kindred in
such wise that it can never be made whole again. I thought of Björn and
Aashild too—there stood this Munan, her son; he was blazing with gold;
he sits in the Council of the King’s Counsellors; they hold their
mother’s heritage, he and his brothers; and he hath not come once to
greet his mother in her poverty in all these years. Aye, and ’twas this
man your lover had chosen to be his spokesman.
“No, I say—no. Into that kindred you shall never come, while my head is
above the ground.”
Kristin buried her face in her hands and broke into weeping:
“Then will I pray God night and day, night and day, that if you change
not your will, He may take me away from this earth.”
“It boots not to speak more of this to-night,” said her father, with
anguish in his voice. “You believe it not now, maybe; but I must needs
guide your life so as I may hope to answer it hereafter. Go now, child,
and rest.”
He held out his hand toward her; but she would not see it and went
sobbing from the room.
* * * * *
The father and mother sat on a while. Then Lavrans said to his wife:
“Would you fetch me in a draught of ale?—no, bring in a little wine,” he
asked. “I am weary—”
Ragnfrid did as he asked. When she came back with the tall wine stoup,
her husband was sitting with his face hidden in his hands. He looked up,
and passed his hand over her head-dress and her sleeves:
“Poor wife, now you are wet—Come, drink to me, Ragnfrid.”
She barely touched the cup with her lips.
“Nay now, drink with me,” said Lavrans vehemently, and tried to draw her
down on his knee. Unwillingly the woman did as he bade. Lavrans said:
“You will stand by me in this thing, wife of mine, will you not? Surely
’twill be best for Kristin herself that she understand from the very
outset she must drive this man from her thoughts.”
“’Twill be hard for the child,” said the mother.
“Aye; well do I see it will,” said Lavrans.
They sat silent awhile, then Ragnfrid asked:
“How looks he, this Erlend of Husaby?”
“Oh,” said Lavrans slowly, “a proper fellow enough—after a fashion. But
he looks not a man that is fit for much but to beguile women.”
They were silent again for a while then Lavrans said:
“The great heritage that came to him from Sir Nikulaus—with that I trow
he has dealt so that it is much dwindled. ’Tis not for such a son-in-law
that I have toiled and striven to make my children’s lives sure.”
The mother wandered restlessly up and down the room. Lavrans went on:
“Least of all did it like me that he sought to tempt Kolbein with
silver—to bear a secret letter to Kristin.”
“Looked you what was in the letter?” asked Ragnfrid.
“No, I did not choose,” said Lavrans curtly. “I handed it back to Sir
Munan, and told him what I thought of such doings. Erlend had hung his
seal to it too—I know not what a man should say of such child’s tricks.
Sir Munan would have me see the device of the seal; that ’twas King
Skule’s privy seal, come to Erlend through his father. His thought was,
I trow, that I might bethink me how great an honour they did me to sue
for my daughter. But ’tis in my mind that Sir Munan had scarce pressed
on this matter for Erlend so warmly, were it not that in this man’s
hands ’tis downhill with the might and honour of the Husaby kindred,
that it won in Sir Nikulaus’ and Sir Baard’s days—No longer can Erlend
look to make such a match as befitted his birth.”
Ragnfrid stopped before her husband:
“Now I know not, husband, if you are right in this matter. First must it
be said that, as times are now many men round about us on the great
estates have had to be content with less of power and honour than their
fathers had before them. And you yourself best know that ’tis less easy
now for a man to win riches either from land or from merchantry than it
was in the old world—”
“I know, I know,” broke in Lavrans impatiently. “All the more does it
behoove a man to guide warily the goods that have come down to him—”
But his wife went on:
“And this, too, is to be said: I see not that Kristin can be an uneven
match for Erlend. In Sweden your kin sit among the best, and your
father, and his father before him bore the name of knights in this land
of Norway. My forefathers were Barons of shires, son after father, many
hundred years, down to Ivar the Old; my father and my father’s father
were Wardens. True it is, neither you nor Trond have held titles or
lands under the Crown. But, as for that, methinks it may be said that
’tis no otherwise with Erlend Nikulaussön than with you.”
“’Tis not the same,” said Lavrans hotly. “Power and the knightly name
lay ready to Erlend’s hand, and he turned his back on them to go
a-whoring. But now I see you are against me too. Maybe you think, like
Aasmund and Trond, ’tis an honour for me that these great folks would
have my daughter for one of their kinsmen—”
Ragnfrid spoke in some heat: “I have told you, I see not that you need
be so overnice as to fear that Erlend’s kinsmen should think they stoop
in these dealings. But see you not what all things betoken—a gentle and
a biddable child to find courage to set herself up against us and turn
away Simon Darre—have you not seen that Kristin is nowise herself since
she came back from Oslo—see you not she goes around like one
bewitched—Will you not understand, she loves this man so sorely, that,
if you yield not, a great misfortune may befall?”
“What mean you by that?” asked the father, looking up sharply.
“Many a man greets his son-in-law and knows not of it,” said Ragnfrid.
The man seemed to stiffen where he sat; his face grew slowly white:
“You that are her mother!” he said hoarsely. “Have you—have you
seen—such sure tokens—that you dare charge your own daughter—”
“No, no,” said Ragnfrid quickly. “I meant it not as you think. But when
things are thus, who can tell what has befallen, or what may befall? I
have seen her heart; not one thought hath she left but her love for this
man—’twere no marvel if one day she showed us that he is dearer to her
than her honour—or her life.”
Lavrans sprang up:
“Oh, you are mad! Can you think such things of our fair, good child? No
harm, surely, can have come to her where she was—with the holy nuns. I
wot well she is no byre-wench to go clipping behind walls and fences.
Think but of it: ’tis not possible she can have seen this man or talked
with him so many times—be sure it will pass away; it cannot be aught but
a young maid’s fancy. God knows ’tis a heavy sight enough for me to see
her sorrow so; but be sure it must pass by in time.
“Life, you say, and honour—. At home here by my own hearthstone ’twill
go hard if I cannot guard my own maiden. Nor do I deem that any maid
come of good people and bred up Christianly in shamefastness will be so
quick to throw away her honour—nor yet her life. Aye, such things are
told of in songs and ballads, sure enough—but methinks ’tis so that when
a man or a maid is tempted to do such a deed, they make up a song about
it, and ease their hearts thereby—but the deed itself they forbear to
do—
“You yourself,” he said, stopping before his wife: “There was another
man you would fain have wed, in those days when we were brought
together. How think you it would have gone with you, had your father let
you have your will on that score?”
It was Ragnfrid now that was grown deadly pale:
“Jesus, Maria! who hath told—”
“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat—’twas when we were just come hither
to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked—Think you your
life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?”
His wife stood with head bowed low:
“That man,” she said—he could scarce hear the words: “’Twas _he_ would
not have _me_.” A throb seemed to pass through her body—she struck out
before her with her clenched hand.
The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders:
“Is it _that_,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder
sounded in his voice; “—is it _that_—through all these years—have you
been sorrowing for _him_—Ragnfrid?”
She trembled much, but she said nothing.
“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward—when Björgulf was
dead—and afterward—when you—when you would have had me be to you as—as I
could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” he spoke low, in
fear and bewilderment and pain.
“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of
weeping.
Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from
side to side.
“I know not. You are so strange—and all you have said to-night. I was
afraid, Ragnfrid. Like enough I understand not the hearts of women—”
Ragnfrid smiled palely and laid her arms about his neck.
“God knows, Lavrans—I was a beggar to you because I loved you more than
’tis good that a human soul should love.—And I hated that other so that
I felt the devil joyed in my hate.”
“I have held you dear, my wife,” said Lavrans, kissing her, “aye, with
all my heart have I held you dear. You know that, surely? Methought
always that we two were happy together—Ragnfrid?”
“You were the best husband to me,” said she with a little sob, and clung
close to him.
He pressed her to him strongly:
“To-night I would fain sleep with you, Ragnfrid. And if you would be to
me as you were in the old days, I should not be—such a fool—”
The woman seemed to stiffen in his arms—she drew away a little:
“’Tis Fast-time.” She spoke low,—in a strange, hard voice.
“It is so.” He laughed a little. “You and I, Ragnfrid—we have kept all
the fasts, and striven to do God’s bidding in all things. And now almost
I could think—maybe we had been happier had we more to repent—”
“Oh, speak not so—_you_,” she begged wildly, pressing her thin hands to
his temples. “You know well I would not you should do aught but what you
feel yourself is the right.”
He drew her to him closely once more—and groaned aloud: “God help her.
God help us all, my Ragnfrid—”
Then: “I am weary,” he said, and let her go. “And ’tis time, too, for
you to go to rest.”
He stood by the door waiting, while she quenched the embers on the
hearth, blew out the little iron lamp by the loom, and pinched out the
glowing wick. Together they went across through the rain to the hall.
Lavrans had set foot already on the loft-room stair, when he turned to
his wife, who was still standing in the entry-door.
He crushed her in his arms again, for the last time, and kissed her in
the dark. Then he made the sign of the cross over his wife’s face, and
went up the stair.
Ragnfrid flung off her clothes and crept into bed. A while she lay and
listened to her husband’s steps in the loft-room above; then she heard
the bed creak, and all was still. Ragnfrid crossed her thin arms over
her withered breasts:
Aye, God help her. What kind of a woman was she, what kind of mother?
She would soon be old now. Yet was she the same; though she no longer
begged stormily for love, as when they were young and her passion had
made this man shrink and grow cold when she would have had him be lover
and not only husband. So had it been—and so, time after time, when she
was with child, had she been humbled, beside herself with shame, that
she had not been content with his lukewarm husband-love. And then, when
things were so with her, and she needed goodness and tenderness—then he
had so much to give; the man’s tireless, gentle thought for her, when
she was sick and tormented, had fallen on her soul like dew. Gladly did
he take up all she laid on him and bear it—but there was ever something
of his own he would not give. She had loved her children, so that each
time she lost one, ’twas as though the heart was torn from her—God, God!
what woman was she then, that even then, in the midst of her torments,
she could feel it as a drop of sweetness that he took her sorrow in to
his heart and laid it close beside his own.
Kristin—gladly would she have passed through the fire for her
daughter—they believed it not, neither Lavrans nor the child—but ’twas
so. Yet did she feel toward her now an anger that was near to hate—’twas
to forget his sorrow for the child’s sorrow that he had wished to-night
that he could give himself up to his wife—
Ragnfrid dared not rise, for she knew not but that Kristin might be
lying awake in the other bed. But she raised herself noiselessly to her
knees, and with forehead bent against the footboard of the bed she
strove to pray. For her daughter, for her husband and for herself. While
her body, little by little, grew stiff with the cold, she set out once
more on one of the night-wanderings she knew so well, striving to break
her way through to a home of peace for her heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
3
Haugen lay high up in the hills on the west side of the valley. This
moonlight night the whole world was white. Billow after billow, the
white fells lay domed under the pale-blue heavens with their thin-strewn
stars. Even the shadows that peaks and domes stretched forth over the
snow-slopes seemed strangely thin and light, the moon was sailing so
high.
Downward, toward the valley, the woods stood fleecy-white with snow and
rime, round the white fields of crofts scrolled over with tiny huts and
fences. But far down in the valley-bottom the shadows thickened into
darkness.
Lady Aashild came out of the byre, shut the door after her, and stood a
while in the snow. White—the whole world; yet it was more than three
weeks still to Advent. Clementsmass cold—’twas like winter had come in
earnest already. Aye, aye; in bad years it was often so.
The old woman sighed heavily in the desolate air. Winter again, and cold
and loneliness—Then she took up the milkpail and went towards the
dwelling-house. She looked once again down over the valley.
Four black dots came out of the woods half-way up the hillside. Four men
on horseback—and the moonlight glanced from a spear-head. They were
ploughing heavily upward—none had come that way since the snowfall. Were
they coming hither?
Four armed men—’Twas not like that any who had a lawful errand here
would come so many in company. She thought of the chest with her goods
and Björn’s in it. Should she hide in the outhouse?
She looked out again over the wintry waste about her. Then she went into
the living-house. The two old hounds that lay before the smoky fireplace
smote the floor-boards with their tails. The young dogs Björn had with
him in the hills.
Aashild blew the embers of the fire into flame, and laid more wood on
them; filled the iron pot with snow and set it on the fire; then poured
the milk into a wooden bowl and bore it to the closet beside the outer
room.
Then she doffed her dirty, undyed, wadmal gown, that smelt of the byre
and of sweat, put on a dark-blue garment, and changed her tow-linen hood
for a coif of fine white linen, which she smoothed down fairly round her
head and neck. Her shaggy boots of skin she drew off, and put on
silver-buckled shoes. Then she fell to setting her room in
order—smoothed the pillows and the skins in the bed where Björn had lain
that day, wiped the long-board clean, and laid the bench-cushions
straight.
When the dogs set up their warning barking, she was standing by the
fireplace, stirring the supper-porridge. She heard horses in the yard,
and the tread of men in the outer room; some one knocked on the door
with a spear-butt. Lady Aashild lifted the pot from the fire, settled
her dress about her, and, with the dogs at her side, went forward to the
door and opened.
Out in the moonlit yard were three young men holding four horses white
with rime. A man that stood before her in the porch cried out joyfully:
“Moster Aashild! come you yourself to open to us? Nay, then must I say
_Ben trouvè_!”
“Sister’s son, is it you indeed! Then the same say I to you! Go into the
room, while I show your men the stable.”
“Are you all alone on the farm?” asked Erlend. He followed her while she
showed the men where to go.
“Aye; Sir Björn and our man are gone into the hills with the sleigh—they
are to see and bring home some fodder we have stacked up there,” said
Lady Aashild. “And serving-woman I have none,” she said, laughing.
A little while after, the four young men were sitting on the outer bench
with their backs to the board, looking at the old lady, as, busily but
quietly, she went about making ready their supper. She laid a cloth on
the board, and set on it a lighted candle; then brought forth butter,
cheese, a bear-ham and a high pile of thin slices of fine bread. She
fetched ale and mead up from the cellar below the room, and then poured
out the porridge into a dish of fine wood, and bade them sit in to the
board and fall to.
“’Tis but little for you young folk,” she said laughing. “I must boil
another pot of porridge. To-morrow you shall fare better—but I shut up
the kitchen-house, in the winter save when I bake or brew. We are few
folks on the farm, and I begin to grow old, kinsman.”
Erlend laughed and shook his head. He had marked that his men behaved
before the old woman seemly and modestly as he had scarce ever seen them
bear themselves before.
“You are a strange woman, Moster. Mother was ten years younger than you,
and she looked older when last we were in your house than you look
to-day.”
“Aye, Magnhild’s youth left her full early,” said Lady Aashild softly.
“Where are you come from, now?” she asked after a while.
“I have been for a season at a farmstead up north in Lesja,” said
Erlend, “I had hired me lodging there. I know not if you can guess what
errand has brought me to this countryside?”
“You would ask: know I that you have had suit made to Lavrans
Björgulfsön of Jörundgaard for his daughter?”
“Aye,” said Erlend. “I made suit for her in seemly and honourable wise,
and Lavrans Björgulfsön answered with a churlish: no. Now see I no
better way, since Kristin and I will not be forced apart, than that I
bear her off by the strong hand. I have—I have had a spy in this
country-side, and I know that her mother was to be at Sundbu at
Clementsmass and for a while after, and Lavrans is gone to Romsdal with
the other men to fetch across the winter stores to Sil.”
Lady Aashild sat silent a while:
“That counsel, Erlend, you had best let be,” said she. “I deem not
either that the maid will go with you willingly; and I trow you would
not use force?”
“Aye, but she will. We have spoken of it many times—she has prayed me
herself many times to bear her away.”
“Kristin has—?” said Lady Aashild. Then she laughed: “None the less I
would not have you make too sure that the maid will follow when you come
to take her at her word.”
“Aye, but she will,” said Erlend. “And, Moster, my thought was this:
that you send word to Jörundgaard and bid Kristin come and be your
guest—a week or so, while her father and mother are from home. Then
could we be at Hamar before any knew she was gone,” he added.
Lady Aashild answered, still smiling:
“And had you thought as well what we should answer, Sir Björn and I,
when Lavrans comes and calls us to account for his daughter.”
“Aye,” said Erlend. “We were four well-armed men and the maid was
willing.”
“I will not help you in this,” said the lady hotly. “Lavrans has been a
trusty man to us for many a year—he and his wife are honourable folk,
and I will not be art or part in deceiving them or beshaming their
child. Leave the maid in peace, Erlend. ’Twill soon be high time, too,
that your kin should hear of other deeds of yours than running in and
out of the land with stolen women.”
“I must speak with you alone, lady,” said Erlend, shortly.
Lady Aashild took a candle, led him to the closet, and shut the door
behind them. She sat herself down on a corn-bin: Erlend stood with his
hands thrust into his belt, looking down at her.
“You may say this, too, to Lavrans Björgulfsön: that Sira Jon of
Gerdarud joined us in wedlock ere we went on our way to Lady Ingebjörg
Haakonsdatter in Sweden.”
“Say you so?” said Lady Aashild. “Are you well assured that Lady
Ingebjörg will welcome you, when you come thither?”
“I spoke with her at Tunsberg,” said Erlend. “She greeted me as her dear
kinsman, and thanked me when I proffered her my service either here or
in Sweden. And Munan hath promised me letters to her.”
“And know you not,” said Aashild, “that even should you find a priest
that will wed you, yet will Kristin have cast away all right to the
heritage of her father’s lands and goods? Nor can her children be your
lawful heirs. Much I doubt if she will be counted as your lawfully
wedded wife.”
“Not in this land, maybe. ’Tis therefore we fly to Sweden. Her
forefather, Laurentius Lagmand, was never wed to the Lady Bengta in any
other sort—they could never win her brother’s consent. Yet was she
counted as a wedded lady—”
“There were no children,” said Aashild. “Think you my sons will hold
their hands from your heritage, if Kristin be left a widow with
children, and their lawful birth can be cast in dispute?”
“You do Munan wrong,” said Erlend. “I know but little of your other
children—I know indeed that you have little cause to judge them kindly.
But Munan has ever been my trusty kinsman. He is fain to have me wed;
’twas he went to Lavrans with my wooing—Besides, afterwards, by course
of law, I can assure our children their heritage and rights.”
“Aye, and thereby mark their mother as your concubine,” said Lady
Aashild. “But ’tis past my understanding how that meek and holy man, Jon
Helgesön, will dare to brave his Bishop by wedding you against the law.”
“I confessed—_all_—to him last summer,” said Erlend in a low voice. “He
promised then to wed us, if all other ways should fail.”
“Is it even so?” said Lady Aashild, slowly—“A heavy sin have you laid
upon your soul, Erlend Nikulaussön. ’Twas well with Kristin at home with
her father and mother—a good marriage was agreed for her with a comely
and honourable man of good kindred—”
“Kristin hath told me herself how you said once that she and I would
match well together. And that Simon Andressön was no husband for her—”
“Oh—I have said, and I have said!” Aashild broke in. “I have said so
many things in my time—Neither can I understand at all that you can have
gained your will with Kristin so lightly. So many times you cannot have
met together. And never could I have thought that maid had been so light
to win—”
“We met at Oslo,” said Erlend. “Afterward she was dwelling out at
Gerdarud with her father’s brother. She came out and met me in the
woods.” He looked down and spoke very low: “I had her alone to myself
out there—”
Lady Aashild started up. Erlend bent his head yet lower.
“And after that—she still was friends with you?” she asked,
unbelievingly.
“Aye,” Erlend smiled a weak, wavering smile. “We were friends still. And
’twas not so bitterly against her—but no blame lies on her. ’Twas then
she would have had me take her away—she was loth to go back to her kin—”
“But you would not?”
“No. I was minded to try to win her for my wife with her father’s will.”
“Is it long since?” asked Lady Aashild.
“’Twas a year last Lawrencemass,” answered Erlend.
“You have not hasted overmuch with your wooing,” said the other.
“She was not free before from her first betrothal.”
“And since then you have not come nigh her?” asked Aashild.
“We managed so that we met once and again.” Once more the wavering smile
flitted over the man’s face. “In a house in the town.”
“In God’s name!” said Lady Aashild.—“I will help you and her as best I
may. I can see it well: not long could Kristin bear to live there with
her father and mother, hiding such a thing as this.—Is there yet more?”
she asked of a sudden.
“Not that I have heard,” said Erlend shortly.
“Have you bethought you,” asked the lady in a while, “that Kristin has
friends and kinsmen dwelling all down the Dale?”
“We must journey as secretly as we can,” said Erlend. “And therefore it
behooves us to make no delay in setting out, that we may be well on the
way before her father comes home. You must lend us your sleigh, Moster.”
Aashild shrugged her shoulders:
“Then is there her uncle at Skog—what if he hear that you are holding
your wedding with his brother’s daughter at Gerdarud?”
“Aasmund has spoken for me to Lavrans,” said Erlend. “He would not be
privy to our counsels, but ’tis like he will wink an eye—we must come to
the priest by night, and journey onward by night. And afterward, I trow
well Aasmund will put it to Lavrans that it befits not a God-fearing man
like him to part them that a priest has wedded—and that ’twill be best
for him to give his consent, that we may be lawful wedded man and wife.
And you must say the like to the man, Moster. He may set what terms he
will for atonement between us, and ask all such amends as he deems
just.”
“I trow Lavrans Björgulfsön will be no easy man to guide in this
matter,” said Lady Aashild. “And God and St. Olav know, sister’s son, I
like this business but ill. But I see well ’tis the last way left you to
make good the harm you have wrought Kristin. To-morrow will I ride
myself to Jörundgaard, if so be you will lend me one of your men, and I
must get Ingrid of the croft above us here to see to my cattle.”
* * * * *
Lady Aashild came to Jörundgaard next evening just as the moonlight was
struggling with the last gleams of day. She saw how pale and
hollow-cheeked Kristin was, when the girl came out into the courtyard to
meet her guest.
The Lady sat by the fireplace playing with the two children. Now and
then she stole keen glances at Kristin, as she went about and set the
supper-board. Thin she was truly, and still in her bearing. She had ever
been still, but it was a stillness of another kind that was on the girl
now. Lady Aashild guessed at all the straining and the stubborn defiance
that lay behind.
“’Tis like you have heard,” said Kristin, coming over to her, “what
befell here this last autumn.”
“Aye—that my sister’s son has made suit for you.”
“Mind you,” asked Kristin, “how you said once he and I would match well
together? Only that he was too rich and great of kin for me?”
“I hear that Lavrans is of another mind,” said the lady drily.
There was a gleam in Kristin’s eyes, and she smiled a little. She will
do, no question, thought Lady Aashild. Little as she liked it, she must
hearken to Erlend, and give the helping hand he had asked.
* * * * *
Kristin made ready her parents’ bed for the guest, and Lady Aashild
asked that the girl should sleep with her. After they had lain down and
the house was silent, Lady Aashild brought forth her errand.
She grew strangely heavy at heart as she saw that this child seemed to
think not at all on the sorrow she would bring on her father and mother.
Yet _I_ lived with Baard for more than twenty years in sorrow and
torment, she thought. Well, maybe ’tis so with all of us. It seemed
Kristin had not even seen how Ulvhild had fallen away this autumn—’tis
little like, thought Aashild, that she will see her little sister any
more. But she said naught of this—the longer Kristin could hold to this
mood of wild and reckless gladness, the better would it be, no doubt.
Kristin rose up in the dark, and gathered together her ornaments in a
little box which she took with her into the bed. Then Lady Aashild could
not keep herself from saying:
“Yet methinks, Kristin, the best way of all would be that Erlend ride
hither, when your father comes home—that he confess openly he hath done
you a great wrong—and put himself in Lavrans’ hands.”
“I trow that, then, father would kill Erlend,” said Kristin.
“That would not Lavrans, if Erlend refuse to draw steel against his
love’s father.”
“I have no mind that Erlend should be humbled in such wise,” said
Kristin. “And I would not father should know that Erlend had touched me,
before he asked for me in seemliness and honour.”
“Think you Lavrans will be less wroth,” asked Aashild, “when he hears
that you have fled from his house with Erlend; and think you ’twill be a
lighter sorrow for him to bear? So long as you live with Erlend, and
your father has not given you to him, you can be naught but his paramour
before the law.”
“’Tis another thing,” said Kristin, “if I be Erlend’s paramour after he
has tried in vain to win me for his lawful wife.”
Lady Aashild was silent. She thought of her meeting with Lavrans
Björgulfsön when he came home and learnt that his daughter had been
stolen away.
Then Kristin said:
“I see well, Lady Aashild, I seem to you an evil, thankless child. But
so has it been in this house ever since father came from the Haugathing,
that every day has been a torment to him and to me. ’Tis best for all
that there be an end of this matter.”
* * * * *
They rode from Jörundgaard betimes the next day, and came to Haugen a
little after nones. Erlend met them in the courtyard, and Kristin threw
herself into his arms, paying no heed to the man who was with her and
Lady Aashild.
In the house she greeted Björn Gunnarsön; and then greeted Erlend’s two
men, as though she knew them well already. Lady Aashild could see no
sign in her of bashfulness or fear. And after, when they sat at the
board, and Erlend set forth his plan, Kristin put her word in with the
others and gave counsel about the journey: that they should ride forth
from Haugen next evening so late that they should come to the gorge when
the moon was setting, and should pass in the dark through Sil to beyond
Loptsgaard, thence up along the Otta stream to the bridge, and from
thence along the west side of the Otta and the Laagen over bypaths
through the waste as far as the horses could bear them. They must lie
resting through the day at one of the empty spring sæters on the
hillside there; “for till we are out of the Holledis country there is
ever fear that we may come upon folk that know me.”
“Have you thought of fodder for the horses?” said Aashild. “You cannot
rob folks’ sæter in a year like this—even if so be there is fodder
there—and you know none in all the Dale has fodder to sell this year.”
“I have thought of that,” answered Kristin. “You must lend us three
days’ food and fodder. ’Tis a reason the more why we must not journey in
so strong a troop.—Erlend must send Jon back to Husaby. The year has
been better on the Trondheim side, and surely some loads can be got
across the hills before the Yule-tide snows. There are some poor folk
dwelling southward in the parish, Lady Aashild, that I would fain you
should help with a gift of fodder for Erlend and me.”
Björn set up an uncanny, mirthless horse-laugh. Lady Aashild shook her
head. But Erlend’s man Ulv lifted his keen, swarthy visage and looked at
Kristin with his bold smile:
“At Husaby there is never abundance, Kristin Lavransdatter, neither in
good years nor in bad. But maybe things will be changed when you come to
be mistress there. By your speech a man would deem you are the housewife
that Erlend needs.”
Kristin nodded to the man calmly, and went on. They must keep clear of
the high-road as far as might be. And she deemed it not wise to take the
way that led through Hamar. But, Erlend put in, Munan was there—and the
letter to the Duchess they must have.
“Then Ulv must part from us at Fagaberg and ride to Sir Munan, while we
hold on west of Mjösen and make our way by Land and the by-roads through
Hadeland down to Hakedal. Thence there goes a waste way south to
Magretadal, I have heard my uncle say. ’Twere not wise for us to pass
through Raumarike in these days, when a great wedding-feast is toward at
Dyfrin,” she said with a smile.
Erlend went round and laid his arm about her shoulders, and she leaned
back to him, paying no heed to the others who sat by looking on. Lady
Aashild said angrily:
“None would believe aught else than that you are well-used to running
away”; and Sir Björn broke again into his horse-laugh.
In a little while Lady Aashild stood up to go to the kitchen-house and
see to the food. She had made up the kitchen fire so that Erlend’s men
could sleep there at night. She bade Kristin go with her: “for I must be
able to swear to Lavrans Björgulfsön that you were never a moment alone
together in my house,” she said wrathfully.
Kristin laughed and went with the Lady. Soon after, Erlend came
strolling in after them, drew a stool forward to the hearth, and sat
there hindering the women in their work. He caught hold of Kristin every
time she came nigh him, as she hurried about her work. At last he drew
her down on his knee:
“’Tis even as Ulv said, I trow; you are the housewife I need.”
“Aye, aye,” said Aashild, with a vexed laugh. “She will serve your turn
well enough. ’Tis she that stakes all in this adventure—you hazard not
much.”
“You speak truth,” said Erlend. “But I wot well I have shown I had the
will to come to her by the right road. Be not so angry, Moster Aashild.”
“I do well to be angry,” said the lady. “Scarce have you set your house
in order, but you must needs guide things so that you have to run from
it all again with a woman.”
“You must bear in mind, kinswoman—so hath it ever been, that ’twas not
the worst men who fell into trouble for a woman’s sake—all sagas tell us
that.”
“Oh, God help us all!” said Aashild. Her face grew young and soft. “That
tale have I heard before, Erlend,” she laid her hand on his head and
gave his hair a little tug.
At that moment Ulv Haldorson tore open the door, and shut it quickly
behind him:
“Here is come yet another guest, Erlend—the one you are least fain to
see, I trow.”
“Is it Lavrans Björgulfsön?” said Erlend starting up.
“Well if it were,” said the man. “’Tis Eline Ormsdatter.”
* * * * *
The door was opened from without; the woman who came in thrust Ulv aside
and came forward into the light. Kristin looked at Erlend; at first he
seemed to shrivel and shrink together; then he drew himself up, with a
dark flush on his face:
“In the devil’s name, where come you from—what would you here?”
Lady Aashild stepped forward and spoke:
“You must come with us to the hall, Eline Ormsdatter. So much manners at
least we have in this house, that we welcome not our guests in the
kitchen.”
“I look not, Lady Aashild,” said the other, “to be welcomed as a guest
by Erlend’s kinsfolk—Asked you from whence I came?—I come from Husaby,
as you might know, I bear you greetings from Orm and Margret; they are
well.”
Erlend made no answer.
“When I heard that you had had Gissur Arnfinsön raise money for you, and
that you were for the south again,” she went on, “I thought ’twas like
you would bide a while this time with your kinsfolk in Gudbrandsdal. I
knew that you had made suit for the daughter of a neighbour of theirs.”
She looked across at Kristin for the first time, and met the girl’s
eyes. Kristin was very pale, but she looked calmly and keenly at the
other.
She was stony-calm. She had known it from the moment she heard who was
come—this was the thought she had been fleeing from always; this thought
it was she had tried to smother under impatience, restlessness and
defiance; the whole time she had been striving not to think whether
Erlend had freed himself wholly and fully from his former paramour. Now
she was overtaken—useless to struggle any more. But she begged not nor
beseeched for herself.
She saw that Eline Ormsdatter was fair. She was young no longer; but she
was fair—once she must have been exceeding fair. She had thrown back her
hood; her head was round as a ball, and hard; the cheekbones stood
out—but none the less it was plain to see—once she had been very fair.
Her coif covered but the back part of her head; while she was speaking,
her hands kept smoothing the waving, bright-gold front-hair beneath the
linen. Kristin had never seen a woman with such great eyes; they were
dark brown, round and hard; but under the narrow coal-black eyebrows and
the long lashes they were strangely beautiful against her golden hair.
The skin of her cheeks and lips was chafed and raw from her ride in the
cold, but it could not spoil her much; she was too fair for that. The
heavy riding-dress covered up her form, but she bore herself in it as
does only a woman most proud and secure in the glory of a fair body. She
was scarce as tall as Kristin; but she held herself so well that she
seemed yet taller than the slender, spare-limbed girl.
“Hath she been with you at Husaby the whole time?” asked Kristin in a
low voice.
“I have not been at Husaby,” said Erlend curtly, flushing red again. “I
have dwelt at Hestnæs the most of the summer.”
“Here now are the tidings I came to bring you, Erlend,” said Eline. “You
need not any longer take shelter with your kinsfolk and try their
hospitality for that I am keeping your house. Since this autumn I have
been a widow.” Erlend stood motionless.
“It was not I that bade you come to Husaby last year, to keep my house,”
said he with effort.
“I heard that all things were going to waste there,” said Eline. “I had
so much kindness left for you from old days Erlend, that methought I
should lend a hand to help you—although God knows you have not dealt
well with our children or with me.”
“For the children I have done what I could,” said Erlend. “And well you
know, ’twas for their sake I suffered you to live on at Husaby. That you
profited them or me by it you scarce can think yourself, I trow,” he
added, smiling scornfully. “Gissur could guide things well enough
without your help.”
“Aye, you have ever had such mighty trust in Gissur,” said Eline,
laughing softly. “But now the thing is this, Erlend now I am free. And
if so be you will, you can keep the promise now you made me once.”
Erlend stood silent.
“Mind you,” asked Eline, “the night I bore your son? You promised then
that you would wed me when Sigurd died.”
Erlend passed his hand up under his hair, that hung damp with sweat.
“Aye,—I remember,” he said.
“Will you keep that promise now?” asked Eline.
“No,” said Erlend.
Eline Ormsdatter looked across at Kristin—then smiled a little and
nodded. Then she looked again at Erlend.
“It is ten years since, Eline,” said the man. “And since that time you
and I have lived together year in year out like two damned souls in
Hell.”
“But not only so, I trow!” said she with the same smile.
“It is years and years since aught else has been,” said Erlend dully.
“The children would be none the better off. And you know—you know I can
scarce bear to be in a room with you any more!” he almost screamed.
“I marked naught of that when you were at home in the summer,” said
Eline with a meaning smile. “Then we were not unfriends—always.”
“If you deem that we were friends, have it as you will, for me,” said
Erlend wearily.
“Will you stand here without end?” broke in Lady Aashild. She poured the
porridge from the pot into two great wooden dishes and gave one to
Kristin. The girl took it. “Bear it to the hall—and you, Ulv, take the
other—and set them on the board; supper we must have, whether it be so,
or so.”
Kristin and the man went out with the dishes. Lady Aashild said to the
two others:
“Come now, you too; what boots it that you stand here barking at each
other.”
“’Tis best that Eline and I have our talk out together now,” said
Erlend.
Lady Aashild said no more, but went out and left them.
* * * * *
In the hall Kristin had laid the table and fetched ale from the cellar.
She sat on the outer bench, straight as a wand and calm of face, but she
ate nothing. Nor had the others much stomach to their food, neither
Björn nor Erlend’s men. Only the man that had come with Eline and
Björn’s hired man ate greedily. Lady Aashild sat herself down and ate a
little of the porridge. No one spoke a word.
At length Eline Ormsdatter came in alone. Lady Aashild bade her sit
between Kristin and herself; Eline sat down and ate a little. Now and
again a gleam as of a hidden smile flitted across her face, and she
stole a glance at Kristin.
A while after Lady Aashild went out to the kitchen-house.
The fire on the hearth was almost burnt out. Erlend sat by it on his
stool, crouched together, his head down between his arms.
Lady Aashild went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder:
“God forgive you, Erlend, that you have brought things to this pass—”
Erlend turned up to her a face besmeared with wretchedness:
“She is with child,” he said, and shut his eyes.
Lady Aashild’s face flamed up, she gripped his shoulder hard:
“Which of them?” she asked, roughly and scornfully.
“My child it is not,” said Erlend, in the same dead voice. “But like
enough you will not believe me—none will believe me—” he sank together
again.
Lady Aashild sat down in front of him on the edge of the hearth:
“Now must you try to play the man, Erlend. ’Tis not so easy to believe
you in this matter. Do you swear it is not yours?”
Erlend lifted his ravaged face:
“As surely as I needed God’s mercy—as surely as I hope—that God in
Heaven has comforted mother for all she suffered here—I have not touched
Eline since first I saw Kristin!” He cried out the words, so that Lady
Aashild had to hush him.
“Then I see not that this is so great a misfortune. You must find out
who the father is, and make it worth his while to wed her.”
“’Tis in my mind that it is Gissur Arnfinsön—my steward at Husaby,” said
Erlend wearily. “We talked together last year—and since then
too—Sigurd’s death has been looked for this long time past. He was
willing to wed her, when she was a widow, if I would give her a fitting
portion—”
“Well?” said Lady Aashild. Erlend went on:
“She swears with great oaths she will have none of him. She will name me
as the father. And if I swear I am not—think you any will believe aught
but that I am forsworn—?”
“You must sure be able to turn her purpose,” said Lady Aashild. “There
is no other way now but that you go home with her to Husaby no later
than to-morrow. And there must you harden your heart and stand firm till
you have this marriage fixed between your steward and Eline.”
“Aye,” said Erlend. Then he threw himself forward again and groaned
aloud:
“Can you not see—Moster—what think you Kristin will believe—?”
At night Erlend lay in the kitchen-house with the men. In the hall
Kristin slept with Lady Aashild in the Lady’s bed, and Eline Ormsdatter
in the other bed that was there. Björn went out and lay in the stable.
The next morning Kristin went out with Lady Aashild to the byre. While
the lady went to the kitchen to make ready the breakfast, Kristin bore
the milk up to the hall.
A candle stood burning on the table. Eline was sitting dressed on the
edge of her bed. Kristin greeted her silently, then fetched a milk-pan
and poured the milk into it.
“Will you give me a drink of milk?” asked Eline. Kristin took a wooden
ladle, filled it and handed it to the other; she drank eagerly, looking
at Kristin over the rim of the cup.
“So you are that Kristin Lavransdatter, that hath stolen from me
Erlend’s love,” she said as she gave back the ladle.
“You should know best if there was any love to steal,” said the girl.
Eline bit her lip.
“What will _you_ do,” she said, “if Erlend one day grow weary of you,
and offer to wed you to his serving-man? Will you do his will in that as
well?”
Kristin made no answer. Then the other laughed, and said:
“You do his will in all things now, I well believe. What think you,
Kristin—shall we throw dice for our man, we two paramours of Erlend
Nikulaussön?” When no answer came, she laughed again and said: “Are you
so simple, that you deny not you are his paramour?”
“To you I care not to lie,” said Kristin.
“’Twould profit you but little if you did,” answered Eline, still
laughing. “I know the boy too well. He flew at you like a black-cock, I
trow, the second time you were together. ’Tis pity of you too, fair
child that you are.”
Kristin’s cheeks grew white. Sick with loathing, she said low:
“I will not speak with you—”
“Think you he is like to deal with you better than with me,” went on
Eline. Then Kristin answered sharply:
“No blame will I ever cast on Erlend, whatever he may do. I went astray
of my own will—I shall not whimper or wail if the path lead out on to
the rocks—”
Eline was silent for a while. Then she said unsteadily, flushing red:
“_I_ was a maid too, when he came to me Kristin—even though I had been
wife in name to the old man for seven years. But like enough you could
never understand what the misery of that life was.”
Kristin began to tremble violently. Eline looked at her. Then from her
travelling-case that stood by her on the step of the bed, she took a
little horn. She broke the seal that was on its mouth and said softly:
“You are young and I am old, Kristin. I know well it boots not for me to
strive against you—your time is now. Will you drink with me, Kristin?”
Kristin did not move. Then the other raised the horn to her own lips;
but Kristin marked that she did not drink. Eline said:
“So much honour you sure can do me, to drink to me—and promise you will
not be a hard step-mother to my children?”
Kristin took the horn. At that moment Erlend opened the door. He stood a
moment, looking from one to the other of the women.
“What is this?” he asked.
Kristin answered, and her voice was wild and piercing:
“We are drinking to each other—we—your paramours—”
He gripped her wrist and took the horn from her.
“Be still,” he said, harshly. “You shall not drink with her.”
“Why not?” cried Kristin as before. “She was pure as I was, when you
tempted her—”
“That hath she said so often, that I trow she is come to believe it
herself,” said Erlend. “Mind you, Eline, when you made me go to Sigurd
with that tale, and he brought forth witness that he had caught you
before with another man?”
White with loathing, Kristin turned away. Eline had flushed darkly—now
she said, defiantly:
“Yet will it scarce bring leprosy on the girl, if she drink with me!”
Erlend turned on Eline in wrath—then of a sudden his face seemed to grow
long and hard as stone, and he gasped with horror:
“Jesus!” he said below his breath. He gripped Eline by the arm:
“Drink to _her_ then,” he said in a harsh and quivering voice. “Drink
you first; then she shall drink to you.”
Eline wrenched herself away with a groan. She fled backwards through the
room, the man after her. “Drink,” he said. He snatched the dagger from
his belt and held it as he followed. “Drink out the drink you have
brewed for Kristin!” He seized Eline’s arm again and dragged her to the
table, then forced her head forward toward the horn.
Eline shrieked once and buried her face on her arm. Erlend released her
and stood trembling.
“A hell was mine with Sigurd,” shrieked Eline. “You—you promised—but you
have been worst to me of all, Erlend!”
Then came Kristin forward and grasped the horn:
“One of us two must drink—both of us you cannot keep—”
Erlend wrenched the horn from her and flung her from him so that she
reeled and fell near by Lady Aashild’s bed. Again he pushed the horn
against Eline Ormsdatter’s mouth—with one knee on the bench he stood by
her side, and with a hand round her head tried to force the drink
between her teeth.
She reached out under his arm, snatched his dagger from the table, and
struck hard at the man. The blow did but scratch his flesh through the
clothes. Then she turned the point against her own breast, and the
instant after sank sidelong down into his arms.
Kristin rose and came to them. Erlend was holding Eline, her head
hanging back over his arm. The rattle came in her throat almost at
once—blood welled up and ran out of her mouth. She spat some of it out
and said:
“’Twas for you I meant—that drink—for all the times—you deceived me—”
“Bring Lady Aashild hither,” said Erlend in a low voice. Kristin stood
immovable.
“She is dying,” said Erlend as before.
“Then is she better served than we,” said Kristen. Erlend looked at
her—the despair in his eyes softened her. She left the room.
“What is it?” asked Lady Aashild, when Kristin called her out from the
kitchen.
“We have killed Eline Ormsdatter,” said Kristin. “She is dying—”
Lady Aashild set off running to the hall. But Eline breathed her last as
the Lady crossed the threshold.
* * * * *
Lady Aashild had laid out the dead woman on the bench, wiped the blood
from her face and covered it with the linen of her coif. Erlend stood
leaning against the wall, behind the body.
“Know you,” said Aashild, “that this was the worst thing that could
befall?”
She had filled the fireplace with twigs and firewood; now she thrust the
horn into the midst of them and blew them into a blaze.
“Can you trust your men?” asked the Lady again.
“Ulv and Haftor are trusty, methinks—of Jon and the man with Eline I
know but little.”
“You know, belike,” said the lady, “should it come out that Kristin and
you were together here, and that you two were alone with her when she
died, ’twere as well for Kristin you had let her drink of Eline’s
brew—And should there be talk of poison, all men will call to mind what
once was laid to _my_ charge.—Had she any kindred or friends?”
“No,” said Erlend in a low voice. “She had none but me.”
“Yet,” said Lady Aashild again, “it may well be a hard matter to cover
up this thing and hide the body away, without the ugliest of misthought
falling on you.”
“She shall rest in hallowed ground,” said Erlend, “if it cost me Husaby.
What say you Kristin?”
Kristin nodded.
Lady Aashild sat silent. The more she thought, the more hopeless it
seemed to her to find any way out. In the kitchen-house were four
men—even if Erlend could bribe them all to keep silence, even if some of
them, if Eline’s man, could be bribed to leave the country—still, sure
they could never be. And ’twas known at Jörundgaard that Kristin had
been here—if Lavrans heard of this, she feared to think what he would
do. And how to bear the dead woman hence. The mountain path to the west
was not to be thought of now—there was the road to Romsdal, or over the
hills to Trondheim, or south down the Dale. And should the truth come
out, it would never be believed—even if folk let it pass for true.
“I must take counsel with Björn in this matter,” she said, and rose and
went out to call him.
Björn Gunnarsön listened to his wife’s story without moving a muscle and
without withdrawing his eyes from Erlend’s face.
“Björn,” said Aashild desperately. “There is naught for it but that one
must swear he saw her lay hands upon herself.”
Björn’s dead eyes grew slowly dark, as life came into them; he looked at
his wife, and his mouth drew aside into a crooked smile:
“And you mean that I should be the one?”
Lady Aashild crushed her hands together and lifted them towards him:
“Björn, you know well what it means for these two—”
“And you think that, whether or no, ’tis all over with me?” he said
slowly. “Or think you there is so much left of the man I once was that I
dare be forsworn to save that boy there from going down to ruin? I that
was dragged down myself—all those years ago. Dragged down, I say,” he
repeated.
“You say it because I am old now,” whispered Aashild.
Kristin burst out into such weeping that the piercing sound filled the
room. She had sat in the corner by Aashild’s bed, stark and silent. Now
she began weeping wildly and loud. It was as though Lady Aashild’s voice
had torn her heart open. The voice had been heavy with the memories of
the sweetness of love; it was as though its sound had made her
understand for the first time what her love and Erlend’s had been. The
memory of hot and passionate happiness swept over all else—swept away
the hard despair and hatred of last night. All she knew of now was her
love and her will to hold out.
They looked at her—all three. Then Sir Björn went across and lifted her
chin with his hand and looked at her:
“Say _you_, Kristin, she did it herself?”
“Every word you have heard is true,” said Kristin firmly. “We threatened
her till she did it.”
“She had meant Kristin should suffer a worst fate,” said Aashild.
Sir Björn let go the girl. He went over to the body, lifted it up into
the bed where Eline had lain the night before, and laid it close to the
wall, drawing up the coverings well over it:
“Jon and the man you do not know you must send home to Husaby, with word
that Eline is journeying south with you. Let them ride at midday. Say
that the women are asleep in the hall; they must take their food in the
kitchen. Afterward you must speak with Ulv and Haftor. Hath she
threatened before to do this? So that you can bring witness to it, if
such question should be asked?”
“Every soul that was at Husaby the last years we lived together there,”
said Erlend wearily, “can witness that she threatened to take her own
life—and mine too sometimes—when I spoke of parting from her.”
Björn laughed harshly:
“I thought as much. To-night we must clothe her in her riding-coats and
set her in the sleigh. You must sit beside her—”
Erlend swayed on his feet where he stood:
“I cannot!”
“God knows how much manhood will be left in _you_ when you have gone
your own gait twenty years more,” said Björn. “Think you, then, you can
drive the sleigh? For then will I sit beside her. We must travel by
night and by lonely paths, till we are come down to Fron. In this cold
none can know how long she has been dead. We will drive in to the monk’s
Hospice at Roaldstad. There will you and I bear witness that you two
were together in the sleigh, and it came to bitter words betwixt you.
There is witness enough that you would not live with her since the ban
was taken off you, and that you have made suit for a maiden of birth
that fits your own. Ulv and Haftor must hold themselves aloof the whole
way, so they can swear, if need be, she was alive when last they saw
her. You can bring them to do so much, I trow? At the monastery you can
have the monks lay her in her coffin—and afterward you must bargain with
the priests for grave-peace for her and soul’s peace for yourself.—Aye,
a fair deed it is not? But so as you have guided things, no fairer can
it be. Stand not there like a breeding woman ready to swoon away. God
help you, boy, a man can see _you_ have not proved before what ’tis to
feel the knife-edge at your throat.”
* * * * *
A biting blast came rushing down from the mountains, driving a fine
silvery smoke from the snow-wreaths up into the moon-blue air, as the
men made ready to drive away.
Two horses were harnessed, one in front of the other. Erlend sat in the
front of the sleigh. Kristin went up to him:
“This time, Erlend, you must try to send me word how this journey goes,
and what becomes of you after.”
He crushed her hand till she thought the blood must be driven out from
under the nails.
“Dare you still hold fast to me, Kristin?”
“Aye, still,” she said; and after a moment—: “Of this deed we are both
guilty—I egged you on—for I willed her death.”
Lady Aashild and Kristin stood and looked after the sleigh, as it rose
and dipped over the snow-drifts. It went down from sight into a
hollow—then came forth again farther down on a snow-slope. And then the
men passed into the shadow of a fell, and were gone from sight for good.
The two women sat by the fireplace, their backs to the empty bed, from
which Aashild had borne away all the bedding and straw. Both could feel
it standing there empty and gaping behind them.
“Would you rather that we should sleep in the kitchen-house to-night,”
asked Lady Aashild at length.
“’Tis like it will be the same wherever we lie,” said Kristin.
Lady Aashild went out to look at the weather.
“Aye, should the wind get up or a thaw come on, they will not journey
far before it comes out,” said Kristin.
“Here at Haugen it blows ever,” answered Lady Aashild. “’Tis no sign of
a change of weather.”
They sat on as before.
“You should not forget,” said the Lady at last, “what fate she had meant
for you two.”
Kristin answered low:
“I was thinking, maybe in her place I had willed the same.”
“Never would you have willed another should be a leper,” said Aashild,
vehemently.
“Mind you, Moster, you said to me once that ’tis well when we dare not
do a thing we think is not good and fair; but not so well when we think
a thing not good and fair because we dare not do it?”
“You had not dared to do it, because ’twas sin,” said Lady Aashild.
“No, I believe not so,” said Kristin. “Much have I done already that I
deemed once I dared not to do because ’twas sin. But I saw not till now
what sin brings with it—that we must tread others underfoot.”
“Erlend would fain have made an end of his ill life long before he met
you,” said Aashild eagerly. “All was over between those two.”
“I know it,” said Kristin. “But I trow she had never cause to deem
Erlend’s purposes so firm that she could not shake them.”
“Kristin,” begged the lady fearfully, “surely you would not give up
Erlend now? You cannot be saved now except you save each other.”
“So would a priest scorn counsel,” said Kristin, smiling coldly. “But
well I know that never can I give up Erlend now—not if I should tread my
own father underfoot.”
Lady Aashild rose:
“We had as well put our hands to some work as sit here thus,” she said.
“Like enough ’twould be vain for us to try to sleep.”
She fetched the butter-churn from the closet, then bore in some pans of
milk, filled the churn and made ready to begin churning.
“Let me do it,” Kristin asked. “My back is younger.”
They worked without speaking; Kristin stood by the closet-door churning,
while Aashild carded wool by the hearth. At last, when Kristin had
emptied the churn and was kneading the butter, the girl asked of a
sudden:
“Moster Aashild—are you never afraid of the day when you must stand
before God’s judgment?”
Lady Aashild rose, and came and stood before Kristin in the light:
“It may be I shall find courage to ask Him that hath made me as I am, if
He will have mercy on me in His own good time. For I have never begged
for His mercy when I broke His commands. And never have I begged God or
man to forgive me a farthing of the price I have paid here in this
mountain hut.”
A little while after she said softly:
“Munan, my eldest son, was twenty years old. He was not such an one
then, as I know he is now. They were not such ones then, my children—”
Kristin answered low:
“But yet have you had Sir Björn by your side each day and each night in
all these years.”
“Aye—that too have I had,” said Aashild.
* * * * *
In a little while after, Kristin was done with the butter-making. Lady
Aashild said then that they must lie down and try to sleep a little.
Inside, in the dark bed, she laid her arm round Kristin’s shoulders, and
drew the young head in to her breast. And it was not long before she
heard by her even gentle breathing that Kristin was fallen asleep.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
4
The frost held on. In every byre in the parish the half-starved beasts
bellowed dolefully with hunger and cold. Already the farmers were
skimping and saving on their fodder, every straw they could.
There was little visiting round at Yule this year; folks stayed quiet in
their own homes.
During Yule-tide the cold grew greater—it was as though each day was
colder than the last. Scarce anyone could call to mind so hard a
winter—there came no more snow, not even up in the mountains; but the
snow that had fallen at Clementsmass froze hard as a stone. The sun
shone from a clear sky, now the days began to grow lighter. At night the
northern lights flickered and flamed above the range to the north—they
flamed over half the heaven, but they brought no change of weather; now
and again would come a cloudy day, and a little dry snow would sprinkle
down—and then came clear weather again and biting cold. The Laagen
muttered and gurgled sluggishly under its ice-bridges.
Kristin thought each morning that she could bear no more, that she could
never hold out to the day’s end. For each day she felt was as a duel
between her and her father. And _could_ they be against each other so,
when every living being in the parish, man and beast, was suffering
under one common trial?—But still, when the evening came, she had held
out one day more.
It was not that her father was unfriendly. They spoke no word of what
was between them, but she felt, behind all that he did not say, his firm
unbending will to hold fast to his denial.
And her heart ached within her for the lack of his friendship. The ache
was so dreadful in its keenness, because she knew how much else her
father had on his shoulders—and had things been as before, he would have
talked with her of it all—It was indeed so, that at Jörundgaard they
were in better case than most other places; but here, too, they felt the
pinch of the year each day and each hour. Other years it had been
Lavrans’ wont in the winters to handle and break in his young colts; but
this year he had sent them all south in the autumn and sold them. And
his daughter missed the sound of his voice out in the courtyard, and the
sight of him struggling with the slender, ragged two-year-olds in the
game he loved so well. Storehouses and barns and bins at Jörundgaard
were not bare yet—there was store left from the harvest of the year
before—but many folk came to ask for help—to buy, or to beg for
gifts—and none ever asked in vain.
Late one evening came a huge old skin-clad man on ski. Lavrans talked
with him out in the courtyard, and Halvdan bore food across to the
hearth-room for him. None on the place who had seen him knew who he
was—he might well be one of those wild folk who lived far in among the
fells; like enough Lavrans had come upon him in there. But Lavrans said
naught of the visitor, nor Halvdan either.
But one evening came a man whom Lavrans Björgulfsön had been at odds
with for many years. Lavrans went to the storeroom with him. When he
came back to the hall again he said:
“They come to me for help, every man of them. But here in my own house
you are all against me. You, too, wife,” he said hotly.
The mother flamed up at Kristin:
“Hear you what your father says to me! No, I am not against you,
Lavrans. I know—and I wot well you know it too, Kristin—what befell away
south at Roaldstad late in the autumn, when he journeyed down the Dale
with that other adulterer, his kinsman of Hauges—she took her own life,
the unhappy woman he had lured away from all her kin.”
Kristin stood with a hard, frozen face:
“I see that ’tis all one—you blame him as much for the years he has
striven to free himself from sin, as for the years he lived in it.”
“Jesus, Maria!” cried Ragnfrid, clasping her hands together: “What is
come to you! Has even this not availed to change your heart?”
“No,” said Kristin. “I have not changed.”
Then Lavrans looked up from the bench where he sat by Ulvhild:
“Neither have I changed, Kristin,” he said in a low voice.
* * * * *
But Kristin felt within her that in a manner she was changed, in
thoughts if not in heart. She had had tidings of how it had fared with
them on that dreadful journey. As things fell out it had gone off more
easily than they looked it should. Whether the cold had got into the
hurt or whatever the cause might be, the knife-wound in Erlend’s breast
had festered, and constrained him to lie sick some while in the hospice
at Roaldstad, Sir Björn tending him. But that Erlend was wounded made it
easier to win belief for their tale of how that other thing had
befallen.
When he was fit to journey on, he had taken the dead woman with him in a
coffin all the way to Oslo. There, by Sira Jon’s help, he had won for
her Christian burial in the churchyard of the old Church of St. Nikolaus
that had been pulled down. Then had he made confession to the Bishop of
Oslo himself, and the Bishop had laid on him as penance to go on
pilgrimage to the Holy Blood at Schwerin. Now was he gone out of the
land.
_She_ could not make pilgrimage to any place on earth, and find
absolution. For her there was naught but to sit here and wait and think,
and strive to hold out in the struggle with her father and mother. A
strange wintery-cold light fell on all her memories of meetings with
Erlend. She thought of his vehemency—in love and in grief—and it was
borne in on her that had she been able, like him, to take up all things
of a sudden, and straightway rush forward with them, headlong,
afterwards maybe they might have seemed less fearful and heavy to bear.
At times, too, she would think: maybe Erlend will give me up. It seemed
to her she must always have had a little, lurking fear that if things
grew too hard for them he would fail her. But she would never give _him_
up, unless he himself loosed her from all vows.
* * * * *
So the winter dragged on toward its end. And Kristin could not cheat
herself any more; she had to see that the hardest trial of all lay
before them—that Ulvhild had not long to live. And in the midst of her
bitter sorrow for her sister she saw with horror that truly her own soul
was wildered and eaten away with sin. For, with the dying child and the
parents’ unspeakable sorrow before her eyes, she was still brooding on
this one thing—if Ulvhild dies, how can I bear to look at my father and
not throw myself at his feet and confess all and beseech him to forgive
me—and command me—.
* * * * *
They were come far on in the long fast. Folks had begun slaughtering the
small stock they had hoped to save alive, for fear they should die of
themselves. And the people themselves sickened and pined from living on
fish, with naught besides but a little wretched meal and flour. Sira
Eirik gave leave to the whole parish to eat milk food if they would. But
few of the folk could come by a drop of milk.
Ulvhild lay in bed. She lay alone in the sisters’ bed, and someone
watched by her each night. It chanced sometimes that both Kristin and
her father would be sitting by her. On such a night Lavrans said to his
daughter:
“Mind you what Brother Edwin said that time about Ulvhild’s lot? Even
then the thought came to me that maybe he meant this. But I thrust it
from me then.”
Sometimes in these nights he would speak of this thing and that from the
time when the children were small. Kristin sat there, white and
desperate—she knew that behind the words her father was beseeching her.
One day Lavrans had gone with Kolbein to hunt out a bear’s winter lair
in the wooded hills to the north. They came home with a she-bear on a
sledge, and Lavrans brought with him a living bear-cub in the bosom of
his coat. Ulvhild brightened a little when he showed it to her. But
Ragnfrid said that was surely no time to rear up such a beast—what would
he do with it at a time like this?
“I will rear it up and bind it before my daughters’ bower,” said
Lavrans, laughing harshly.
But they could not get for the cub the rich milk it needed, and Lavrans
had to kill it a few days after.
* * * * *
The sun had gained so much strength now that sometimes, at midday, the
roofs would drip a little. The titmice clambered about, clinging on the
sunny side of the timber walls, and pecked till the wood rang, digging
for the flies sleeping in the cracks. Over the rolling fields around,
the snow shone hard and bright as silver.
At last one evening clouds began to draw together over the moon. And the
next morning the folks at Jörundgaard woke in the midst of a whirling
world of snow that shut in their sight on every hand.
* * * * *
That day they knew that Ulvhild was dying.
All the house-folk were indoors, and Sira Eirik came over to them. Many
candles were burning in the hall. Early in the evening Ulvhild passed
away, quietly and peacefully, in her mother’s arms.